Little Moments
by Rush Limborg
Summary: Inspired by the excellent ficlet anthologies by dontbesojaded and SamandDianeOTP. A series of little looks at Sam and Diane, from various perspectives and at various stages of their relationship. Five more now up! Very mild "T". Enjoy, and let me know what you think!
1. Chapter 1

**Note: This ficlet collection was inspired by two excellent predecessors: dontbesojaded's "Little Known Facts" and SamandDianeOTP's "Things You Didn't Know". I hope I do the standard set by those two excellent writers justice.**

**The second story, by the way, is something of a sequel to a "moment" in my tale "The Whole Night Through", when Diane remembers calling Woody to let the gang know she's going to L.A. (The fourth story also refers to an event in that tale. Christopher, of course, is from "Stepchildren".) The third story's a mini-crossover with ****_Frasier_****, of sorts.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**First—Crying, Baby, For You**

A significant part of Diane Chambers completely understood Sam Malone's reluctance to openly enjoy anything that didn't "fit" with his jockish persona. The truth was, she held a few "guilty pleasures" of her own—not the least of which involved her fondness for certain genres of music that arguably didn't fit with her own persona of a refined, literary-minded "lady and a scholar". But then again, she would always argue, whenever someone discovered these tastes, that there wasn't _really_ a conflict…though often, as in the case of "Our House", she had little excuse aside from it appealing to her "inner child". Surely no one could blame her for that.

She was quite an admirer of Bob Dylan, Elton John, and the like. There was a certain poetic quality—and at times a particularly deep insight—in many of their respective songs, to be sure…which is how she always defended it. She had a liking to Don McLean's "American Pie": she enjoyed music with many layers, and the ambiguous symbolism of the lyrics certainly didn't hurt. Of course, she drew the line at vulgarity of any kind, and always flinched or squirmed at music implying aggressive machismo.

She deeply adored The Supremes, and the sense of joyful Romanticism which so often filled their work, regardless of how sad or dismal the lyrics may technically appear to be. Still, after leaving _Cheers_ following her near-wedding, she as a rule found herself unable to listen to them…at least, not without streams of tears running down her cheeks.

Four years after moving to Los Angeles, a friend had invited her over for a sort of "sleepover". All was going well, and they decided to indulge in music. Eventually, the friend decided to play "Come See About Me".

Diane couldn't make it through the first chorus—and rushed into the guest room, burying her eyes in a pillow.

* * *

**Second—Promises Are Promises**

Woody kept that last call from Miss Chambers in his heart, making sure to remember his promise to her, on the off chance that Sam would visit Boston, again. He made sure to remember—he was good at that kind of thing. He knew the serial numbers on his big bucks by heart. He remembered.

It was around five months after the call when Sam came back, and got the job as a bartender at the place he used to own.

Woody tried to tell him, but didn't get far: "Hey, uh, Sam?"

"Yeah, what's up?"

"When you were gone, Miss Cha—"

The look in Sam's face as he turned to him in reaction wasn't _angry_…but there was something in it that made Woody stop, and hesitate before trying again. But Sam rushed off somewhere before Woody could say anything.

Still, a promise was a promise. So finally, Woody wrote a note, and put it in one of the front pockets of Sam's coat:

_Sam, it's Woody. Sorry if it makes you mad, but I promised I'd tell you. Miss Chambers called, when you were off on your boat. She says she's off working in Hollywood—writing for TV and movies. She wants you to know she still loves you, and always will. And, she wants you to know she's sorry._

_Hope you don't get mad—I promised her. If you do get mad, though, I understand._

Sam never told him if he read the note, but for the next few days, it seemed to Woody as if Sam was making a point not to look at him.

* * *

**Third—Father Knows Best**

Martin Crane rarely found himself approving of the women Frasier brought home. Diane Chambers was no exception. Well…he _liked_ her well enough—she was cute as heck, and considering how similar her tastes were to _both_ his boys, she might as well have been the daughter Hester had always wanted. Martin didn't know _what_ his wife hated about her so much. Except for being super eager-to-please, Diane kind of reminded him of Hester herself, when he'd first dated her. _Kind_ of….

Diane certainly showered him with respect—launching over and over into what might as well have been mini-poems about the honor due to "those who patrol the streets for the sake of those who never could"—earning a constant tired "Aw, _geez_…" from Martin.

Still, as a possible wife for Frasier?

"You're out of your mind, falling for that woman," he said when he and Frasier were alone.

Frasier froze. "I _beg_ your pardon?"

"You're not deaf. You heard me."

"But…_Dad_, what's wrong with her?"

"Nothing, except she's not in love with you."

Frasier scoffed, "Oh, that's absurd! Of course she's—"

"She's not, and you know it. Don't tell me you don't, Frasier—if you _really_ don't, I don't know _what_ that means about all that Harvard fluff—"

"And what is _that_ supposed to mean?"

"_Look_! Maybe I'm not Mr. _Brilliant_ Psychologist, here—but I'll be darned if I don't know how to read people. Now, every time she talks about how much she _loves_ you, she flinches. A little bit, but it's there."

"Oh, _come_ on, Dad—that could mean many things. It—"

"Okay, how about this: when she goes on about it, she either breaks her gaze, or she overcompensates like she's defensive about it—"

"Dad…"

"She's in love with another guy, okay?! She doesn't want to admit it—she _wants_ to love you, but her heart's another guy's. She's telling herself it isn't—and _that_ means it's probably an ex."

Frasier stiffened. "_Dad_—"

"Frasier, you're my _son_. I don't want to see you get into something stupid. Is she a nice girl? Sure! Would she be a good daughter-in-law? Well, she's a heck of a lot better than that walking ice pick your _brother's_ seeing, I'll tell you _that_—"

Frasier smirked for a second.

"But is she the woman for you? _No_."

"Dad, if you'll give her—"

"She's _another man's_, Frasier—and until you see that, you're one step away from getting raw omelet all over your face when _she_ finally sees it."

Frasier said nothing. Martin wasn't sure, but if he was a betting man, he'd have wagered a few chips that his son had a pretty good idea who "another man" was…even if Martin personally didn't have a clue.

* * *

**Fourth—Shock Therapy**

Nearly five years after leaving Boston, Diane was burning the proverbial oil of midnight, typing a vital scene in her script for _The Heart Held Hostage_. When finished, she headed to the kitchen, to pour herself a cup of tea.

Christopher leapt up onto the counter, looking up at her, a pleading look in his eyes.

Diane smiled, and shook her head, "Oh, no—tea is _not_ for you, young man. And you had your dinner already."

"Mew!" Christopher replied.

"_No_…and that's final."

Christopher paused for a moment, and jumped down to the floor.

When the tea was brewed, Diane filled a cup, bringing it outside to the deck, looking out over the California beach. Hearing the roar of the tide, smelling the salt in the air…feeling the wind on her face…the night was beautiful, and almost perfect.

_Oh, but it _is_ perfect! How can I tell myself otherwise? All around me is pure tranquility, with the right hint of excitement in the crash of the waves. It's a perfect night to share with another—_

She stiffened for a moment, wondering why on Earth her thoughts would lead to that. Some things were best enjoyed alone…aren't they?

She shrugged, and lifted the cup to her mouth—

Diane gasped at the sudden jolt—and the cup shattered against the deck.

She took a second to gather herself…and blinked, looking around. What was it? It wasn't only a shudder—it was like a jolt of electricity surging through her body, as though she'd touched a frayed cord plugged into the wall.

She sighed—it probably _was_ only a chill. She looked down at the teacup—or what remained of it, anyway. She shook her head, "I don't believe this…."

_"Diane?"_

Diane froze. She knew that voice.

_Oh, my—oh, _Sam_! But—how in heaven's name—?_

She whirled around, peering about. Nothing…not in the house, not on the sand—and not on the deck.

But she knew that, somehow—and suddenly, she realized why. The moment she had heard his voice, she has seen him, for a flicker of a moment—right in front of her, on the ground, reaching weakly to her.

She shook her head quickly, rubbing her brow.

_No…it wasn't like before, the last time this happened—I don't feel as though he's in danger._

Still, as she looked out into the sea, she sighed, and shook her head. _A perfect night…to share with another._

Over a year later, when she and Sam were all-too-briefly reunited, he told her of a moment when, "just over a year ago", he'd gotten himself zapped trying to hot-wire a car during a road trip—and for a brief moment, he could've sworn he'd seen her standing there before him. Diane had shared his chuckle, at this…but within, her head spun and her heart beat ever harder.

* * *

**Fifth—A Bet To Remember**

As they walked from _Melville's_ to Sam's place for "dessert", Sam and Diane found themselves talking. They were both getting restless—impatient to get there, and satisfy one another as they so often had—and it was the best means available to keep their passions from exploding on the spot.

In particular, they discussed the fact that, after six years, they'd failed, over and over, to find an acceptable substitute for one another. Still, they had their lives—Diane had a successful career as a writer of "indies", as they were called (and an occasional studio project, usually for television)…and Sam, of course, had the bar.

Sam didn't know what made him think of the idea—no…actually he did. It was because, looking at Diane—a little older, a little more reserved, but no less beautiful and sexy—he found himself looking for a way.

"So what do you say to a bet, huh?" he said, as they walked up the steps to his floor.

Diane turned to him, amused. "A bet?"

"Yeah, it's been six years, and we're on opposite sides of the country. So…what do you say? Give us another six years: If neither of us finds anyone by _then_…"

They'd reached the door, and Sam put his key in the lock.

Diane paused, staring at him, wide-eyed. "Sam…! Are—are you suggesting…?"

Sam shrugged, as he opened his door, pocketing the key. "I dunno. I guess, if it takes _that_ long, it's pretty obvious…"

Diane said nothing, as she stood there, facing him.

Sam frowned, "Honey?"

Diane rushed into his arms—pushing both of them inside. And she threw her arms around him, and kissed him—again, and again, on the mouth. And then she smiled in his arms, her face glowing as he remembered and loved.

"So, we have a bet?" Sam chuckled.

Diane shrugged, "If you like. Only…"

Her voice trailed off. Sam frowned a little. "Sweetheart?"

Still smiling, Diane looked as though her eyes were about to well up in tears.

"Must we wait that long?" she whispered, as the door closed in behind them.


	2. Chapter 2

**Note: So, not long after I published what is now essentially "Chapter 1"—and lo and behold, I get hit with ideas for more ficlets! Hope you're all still with me, folks. Enjoy!**

* * *

**Sixth—Insult To Injury**

When Diane had extolled the reputation of Dr. Simon Finch-Royce to Sam and the rest of the bar, she had made it a point to invoke the rumor that he'd even gave council to Prince Charles and Princess Diana. Of course…when the doctor then had the nerve to proclaim that she and Sam "should never see each other again"—that past reputation only made the insult cut ever deeper.

Diane had striven to tell herself—and Royce himself—that he was full of rubbish. But then…there was still his reputation. And when she had come to terms with the fact that she would not return to Sam's arms in the six months she'd promised—and again, when they'd ultimately decided not to fly off into the sunset together—she found herself remembering the diagnosis of Dr. Simon Finch-Royce: that a marriage between them would never have worked out, because Sam Malone and Diane Chambers had "absolutely nothing in common". Of course, that was a _decided_ exaggeration, but…in essence, was he right after all? Was her mourning of a love lost simply a refusal to accept the inevitable: that no matter how many times they'd try, it would always fail?

But then the news stories increased all the more, of the crumbling marriage of the Prince and Princess of Wales.

Diane was always a Romantic at heart. As such, she had counted it something of a hobby of hers, to follow along the modern-day fairy tale—which was how she'd known of Dr. Royce's alleged involvement in the relationship of the royal couple. Needless to say, Diane's encounter with that smugly indifferent snoot had lessened that fascination—any mention of "Chuck and Di" only served to conjure up a string of memories with which she wouldn't care to deal. Still…Diane, like so many in the English-speaking world, found herself somehow transfixed by the "fairy-tale's" spiral down into the levels of a tragic soap opera.

Diane Chambers never considered herself a "cruel" woman—never deliberately cruel—but when she read of a the separation of Charles and Diana…a dark part of her soul found herself throwing a self-satisfied mental and spiritual dart at the memory of one Dr. Simon Finch-Royce:

_Well, doctor…what have you wrought, at long last? What do your colleagues think now—and your patients—and all those others who built their regard of you from how skillfully you mastered the waters of "Chuck and Di"? What are _you_ thinking now…I wonder?_

She wasn't proud of that emotion, that vengefulness. But she didn't fight it, either.

Shortly after the royal couple formally divorced—a few months after her visit to Seattle—Diane came across a magazine article by one Dr. Simon Finch-Royce, marriage counselor. She couldn't help smirking inside, in bitter amusement, at the revelation that he'd been divorced from the woman to whom he'd been married when he'd "counseled" Diane and Sam. She wasn't proud of that feeling, and felt ashamed the moment after…but then, she couldn't begin to imagine what problems could have been stirred up in the Finch-Royce household by the insufferable pigheadedness of the man.

But those emotions vanished, when she discovered the article's subject: a "fresh look" at the idea that "opposites attract". Apparently, experience had led him to accept that it may be more credible an idea than he'd once thought.

To say that Diane was sick to her stomach at the man's abhorrent timing would have been a _considerable_ understatement.

* * *

**Seventh—Fantasy And Fancy**

_Now just take my word on this,_ Sam had said to Diane, after Mummy had told her of the clause in Daddy's will, _Marriage changes people. There's not a woman in the world who can stand up there, hear those words and not start believing it. …There's not a man that can resist it, either._

They hadn't followed through on the pseudo-marriage. But after Boggs and Mummy had left the bar, Sam and Diane remained, alone with their memories of being swept away….

"Well! Um…" Diane began—and finally just spread out her hands. "And _that_…was my mother."

"Yeah, you said it," Sam nodded. "Boy, she's nuts."

"Frankly, Sam, I would agree."

"She makes you look sane."

"Frankly, Sam, I would disagree—wait…" Diane tilted her head as she looked at him, "And what is _that_ supposed to mean?"

Sam held up his hands in surrender. "Sorry…never mind. Well, uh—that's all, I guess. If you need a ride—"

Diane stood up, holding up her hand. "_No_ thank you, Mr. Malone—I believe it'd be best if we were to remain _separate_ for the rest of the night."

"Fair enough, Mrs. Malone."

Diane was walking to the door—but when Sam said this, she froze. After a moment, she turned to him. Sam met her gaze, with an innocent smile. Diane scoffed, shaking her head, failing to suppress a smile of her own.

Later that night, in her apartment, she found herself staring into the mirror. It was probably an odd coincidence…but the linen nightgown she'd chosen to wear was _white_.

Diane stared at herself in the mirror…and smoothed out the dress, with a warm smile. Nightgown or not…

She straightened up proudly, and whispered, "Diane…Malone."

She'd said it without thinking. When her mind caught up with her, she stiffened, and squirmed. Then she cleared her throat, and rushed into the bedroom, to sleep off this insanity.

As she lay under the covers, Diane tried her hardest not to dwell on the fact that she'd felt a moment's disappointment that the bed was empty, apart from her. Or that the man she'd been expecting in that moment to see lying beside her was none other than—

_Stop it!_

But she found herself unable to sleep, until she allowed herself this little moment of being swept away.

* * *

**Eighth—To My Hesitating Heart**

Frasier and Diane shared many tastes in culture and refinement—and their love of such musicals as the works of Gilbert & Sullivan was no exception. Still, Diane somehow found herself unable to enjoy _HMS Pinafore_ as much as usual, during their time together.

It happened when a theater in Boston announced that they would put on the opera, the two were absolutely elated—to the point of heading to the _Cheers_ piano, and performing "When I Was A Lad" for the patrons—Frasier leading while playing, Diane singing backup.

When they finished, Clifford invoked his expertise of Little Known Facts by asserting the use of songs from _Pinafore_ in the film _Raiders Of The Lost Ark_. In this case, he presumably was correct. Regardless, this had led Sam to ask, "So, what's it about, anyway?"

"_Pinafore_?" Diane beamed as she walked down to the bar counter. "Oh—it's a wonderfully witty look at the pomp and pretense of the class society of 19th century Great Britain—specifically involving the Royal Navy. It involves a captain's daughter, deeply conflicted and torn between the demands of her upper-class life and her hidden feelings for a mere sailor—"

Her words cut off at the sight of Sam staring at her in silence, _very_ pointedly, with a smile on his face.

Diane shrugged, and to save face, concluded, "But I doubt you'd find it within yourself to glean anything _meaningful_ from it."

As she walked back to Frasier, Sam shot back, "Hey, from what I've heard, sounds like I'd kinda like it."

"Of _course_, Sam—but I somehow doubt you'd enjoy it in the way it's _meant_ to be enjoyed."

Sam just chuckled.

As she and Frasier sat in the theater, Diane tried her best to throw herself into the enjoyment she'd always had for _Pinafore_—to lose herself in the liveliness of the melodies, and the wit of the lyrics. But…she couldn't. Throughout the opera, she found her stomach churning—and at last, she found herself centering on one train of thought:

_No…it's not the same. My feelings are not the same—he is not the sailor. He is _not_ Ralph—!_

And suddenly her heart skipped a beat, at the coincidence…at the memories of Goldenbrook, and a fellow patient named Amanda, and what Diane had not too long ago said to Amanda to keep Sam from suffering her obsessions: _"This is Ralph."_

_No, that had nothing to do with _Pinafore_. It's only a coincidence. I picked the name for a reprehensible straw man embodying the worst elements of Sam. He is not Ralph—EITHER Ralph! And I am not Josephine!_

But that in no way cured her of her squirms. And they remained with her for the rest of the night.

* * *

**Ninth—If Only He Knew**

From the moment she had hung up the pay phone—and offered to change the time and place—Diane had felt her heart sink, and her soul churn…as though she was making one of the biggest mistakes of her life.

That feeling only deepened, tugging at her all the more, as she waked closer and closer to the altar, where stood her Frasier, smiling and all aglow. The sight only increased the feelings of guilt and shame within her…but she managed to smile back.

She tried her best to shove the feelings away—but it returned in full force when the priest turned to her:

"And do you, Miss Diane Chambers," he said, "take this man…"

Diane couldn't look at him. She couldn't look at Frasier. Her gaze and thoughts were elsewhere—on one face, one man.

_Oh, get ahold of yourself! He wasn't on a plane—he was still in Boston! He didn't care—he isn't coming…he wasn't—he wouldn't have, even if you _hadn't_ changed a thing! He didn't want to come, Diane—he didn't—_doesn't_ love you! He _doesn't_!_

But somehow, she was completely unable to think that with any authority, whatsoever.

_You don't know—that may not have been it! Maybe he didn't want to hurt you…maybe he truly believes that Frasier is the man you love, and he didn't want to—_

_What am I saying? What am I _thinking_? How can I possibly be dwelling on such things? Of _course_ I love Frasier—I do! I love him! Why can't I accept that—WHY?!_

She shoved it away…and realized that all were looking at her, waiting in silence.

_Oh, no._ How long ago had the priest finished? How long had they all been waiting for her final declaration of love for the man beside her? How long—

She blinked, and chuckled nervously, searching for the best possible save.

"Are—are you…talking to me?"

That probably wasn't the ideal response—but it was all she could think of.

The priest frowned, and nodded slowly. "Si…?"

Diane swallowed, and found herself looking at Frasier. He met her gaze, smiling encouragingly—but she could read his bewilderment in his eyes.

Diane froze for a moment, feeling her eyes well up.

_Oh, Frasier…Frasier, I'm so sorry. Oh, dear God—what have I done? I—I _don't_ love you, Frasier. I care for you, dearly, but…my heart belongs to—to…_

_Why, how can I say this? You're prefect for me—in every way, in all the ways Sam shouldn't be! But…but I _can't_ marry you, Frasier—not when I don't feel for you what I should. It'd be far worse…for both of us._

Such were the thoughts that filled her mind, and her heart, and her soul, and every fiber of her being. But she knew full well that no words could change a thing. He'd _known_, hadn't he?—known with whom her heart truly lay. He'd tried to get her to admit it—over and over…but she'd denied it so vehemently—so fully, that he'd finally begun to accept that it was nonsense…that _he_, Dr. Frasier Crane, was the man for her.

But he wasn't. And Diane knew she would deeply regret what she was about to do. But she also knew that she would regret the alternative all the more.

The tears escaped, as she shook her head and whispered, "I'm sorry…."

Frasier's smile faded, as he straightened, bracing himself.

And Diane Chambers whirled away, running—_running_ away, with all she was. And her heart cried out the apology over and over, without end—to two men…two suitors who'd both suffered a broken heart, at her hands.

* * *

**Tenth—Like Charges Repel**

Sam was a proverbial "mixed bag" when he talked about his past. He loved to talk about his successes in his baseball career—his failures, not so much. But he was less tight-lipped about _that_ then about his parents—only rarely would he discuss _them_ in any detail. And at times, Diane strongly suspected her fiancé held a similar reluctance in regards to his ex-wife, Deborah.

Diane had learned of her existence early on, shortly after beginning work at the bar. She soon met her—Deborah had gone on a _date_ with Sam, in the latter's effort to "prove" that he could date intelligent women. Nonetheless, Diane barely heard Sam, or anyone else, ever speak of the woman again—until after the debacle with Dr. Simon Finch-Royce.

Despite the triumph she'd felt over driving the self-righteous snoot to a breaking point, the truth was—the doubt still existed, between Sam and Diane, whether in some way…the man was right: whether they truly were a "mismatch". By and large, their doubts had been lessened during their stroll through the Boston Public Garden, before their last visit to "the Finch"—they had reaffirmed their love, and the ultimate compatibility. Still…there remained that lingering doubt.

Shortly after leaving the man fuming in his suite, the couple sat in Diane's apartment, talking of many things—anything, to distract them from what had happened over the past several hours. Eventually, the conversation led to Sam talking of the glory days—which led to his recounting how, after he struck out someone-or-other—someone _big_…leading to the securing of a Red Sox victory—he was cheered stadium-wide. All had been hinging on that last inning, and they'd won. The elation was so big, Debora had rushed onto the field, running up to him and sharing a big smooch and—

When Sam realized what he'd blurted out…he looked off, saying nothing. Diane looked at him in silence, waiting.

Finally, Sam shook his head, and sighed, "Sorry, I…"

"No—it's all right, Sam. I…" Diane swallowed, and gave him a reassuring smile, "I—can't begin to imagine…"

"Well, hey, you told me your parents split, right?"

"Why, of course, but…it isn't the same."

"Yeah…." Sam let out a sigh, "I don't know why I thought of that."

Diane said nothing. She'd often heard of the "warning sign" of someone in a relationship making a prior relationship a constant reference, in conversations—that it meant inevitable comparisons or contrasts. Still, this was the first time Sam had mentioned the woman, in a long time. _Something_ had brought it up.

After a moment, Sam chuckled, looking off.

Diane smiled. "What?"

"Oh, you know something? If I had a mind to, I'd go right back to that Finch and throw Deborah in his face."

Diane shook her head, still with a smirk. "Not _literally_, I hope."

Sam snickered, and went on, "You know, all he said about how we shouldn't get married, because we're so different? I'd bet you my whole account, if he'd looked at Deborah and me, before I married her…he'd have said we'd be _perfect_ together—and he would've meant it, too."

Oh. That was what it was—and a sense relief cured Diane of the slight concern in her heart. She'd thought it could have been fear—that just as his romance with his first wife hadn't kept their marriage from falling apart…that this time would, in the end, be no different. But even if that were it…Sam's fears were giving way to something else—whatever it was.

"You had a lot in common?" Diane asked.

"Oh, are you kidding? The girl was a sports chick, like you never saw in your _life_! We did everything together: we liked the same teams, watched the same movies, ate the same foods—we could go anywhere, and it'd be great…."

But he didn't say it with a fond remembrance for "the good old days". His voice was low, and somehow dark. And Diane didn't miss that.

She nodded slowly, encouragingly. "But…?"

Sam managed to smile, "But what? We're divorced!"

"I-I know, Sam, but…and I understand, if you don't want to talk of it—"

"No, you're right…" he looked off again, and muttered, "You know, I took up drinking, and for the longest time, I couldn't figure out why. Neither could she. All I knew was, we couldn't take it. But you know, we didn't stop being friends…" he smirked, "And after I sobered up, we still had a lot of _nights_, and…well, anyway, we just—we never held the divorce against each other."

"And you didn't try again?"

"No…I guess she felt a little responsible, for not being able to help me through whatever it was I'd been going through."

Diane's gaze lowered, saying nothing…remembering what he'd told her, before she went off with poor Frasier to Europe: that her being there for him truly _did _help him stay sober. She'd provided something that Deborah hadn't—she didn't know what it was, and she doubted he did, either. But…her being there for him—it had helped him.

Sam turned to her, smiling, "You know what's funny, sweetheart? I never knew why I did what I did—the boozing and all. But…then, _you_ said something about my competition—remember that?"

Diane looked at him for a moment, and nodded, "I remember."

"Well, it's just…until you said it, I just assumed it was stress, or something—I couldn't handle it, or I couldn't take it, or whatever. But…what you said, it got me thinking: maybe I _was_ just afraid I couldn't ever be 'good enough'—and I pushed myself too hard, and I just…snapped."

"Well, I…" Diane began—but couldn't continue. She had no words for what she'd heard him say.

Sam's smile grew, "You know, I guess I'm saying…maybe in a way, Deborah was right. I don't mean it was her _fault_, but…she just couldn't see things the way you could. She didn't see it coming, I guess—not in time to warn me."

Diane stared at him, her eyes widening as she realized what he meant.

Sam shrugged, "I guess…she and I had too much in common."

For a while longer, Diane just looked at him in silence. At last, she smiled, her eyes moistening. And she snuggled up to him, and they embraced…the last of their doubts fading away.


End file.
